"Much better come along to the Club," Draconmeyer advised, good-humouredly. "You can be there yourself before a message could reach him."
"Very well," she assented. "I will be ready in ten minutes...."
Draconmeyer took his wife back to her room.
"Did I do as you wished, dear?" she asked him anxiously.
"Absolutely," he replied.
He helped her back to her couch and stooped and kissed her. She leaned back wearily. It was obvious that she had found the exertion of moving even so far exhausting. Then he returned to his own apartments. Rapidly he unlocked his dispatch box and took out one or two notes from Violet. They were all of no importance—answers to invitations, or appointments. He spread them out, took a sheet of paper and a broad pen. Without hesitation he wrote:
Congratulations on your escape, but why do you run such risks! I wish you would go back to England.
Violet.
He held the sheet of notepaper a little away from him and looked at it critically. The imitation was excellent. He thrust the few lines into an envelope, addressed them to Hunterleys and descended to the hall. He left the note at the office.
"Send this up to Sir Henry, will you?" he instructed. "Let him have it as quickly as possible."